


Better

by Last_Chance_Anna



Series: STAY [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940's homophobia, And it is killing me to use that tag right now, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bisexual Tony Stark, Depression, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, F/M, Former Rogues friendship, Honestly who doesn't have a little crush on Sam Wilson?, I promise, I'm Sorry, M/M, Sam Wilson is a great guy, Self-Harm, Some Fluff, Steve is trying really hard, Suicide Attempt, The guys are finally together, There's good stuff too, Tony has a little crush, Tony is the world's best partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Last_Chance_Anna/pseuds/Last_Chance_Anna
Summary: Continuing the events of "Meet Me in the Woods".  Steve and Tony are finally together, finally happy, but there's something wrong.  Steve is feeling off.  Tony and their friends are there to help, but will it be enough?
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Friday & Steve Rogers, Friday & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: STAY [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543645
Comments: 28
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay guys, it's time for plot to rear its ugly head again. Please heed the tags. I'm sorry.

_**How did he get here?** _

**Fucking hospital chairs were always so uncomfortable. They came in two varieties: 1. Plastic, contoured, hard. 2. Metallic, slightly padded, still hard. Why the fuck couldn’t hospitals ever spring for a comfortable chair? Maybe it was a mental thing. Maybe if you were so worried about your aching back and ass and the fact that your legs went numb twenty minutes ago so even if you _wanted_ to get a cup of their shitty vending machine coffee, you couldn’t because you couldn’t stand up, you wouldn’t worry as much about being in a hospital waiting room at half-past-fuck o’clock on a rainy Sunday morning.**

**_Congratulations,_ Tony thought as he shifted in the plastic chair, _you win, hospital gods. I haven’t thought about him once in the last forty-five minutes._**

**Which was a lie, and he knew it.**

**He’d thought of nothing _but_ him since they’d gotten here.**

**_But, how did he get here?_**

\---

“Hey, you.”

Steve’s eyes met his in the mirror. He cocked an exasperated eyebrow at Tony’s reflection. “Still, Tony?”

“Come on, it’s fun.”

“Look, I’ve done this with you for days now. Are you ever going to let it drop?”

Tony considered, squinting his eyes and biting his lip, then shook his head. “Nope.”

“I’m tired of saying it,” Steve complained, rinsing off his toothbrush and putting it back into the holder on his side of the vanity. He folded his towel neatly and laid it down next to it. Tony’s side was a jumble of products, face cream, hair gel, cologne. His razor sat precariously close to the edge, the charger unplugged and useless, in the corner. Steve restrained himself from tidying it. They’d come to an uneasy compromise: Steve wouldn’t touch Tony’s stuff, and Tony wouldn’t encroach on Steve’s side. They’d come to this arrangement after a fight over an improperly-capped tube of toothpaste and it had held up so far.

Thirty-six hours and counting.

“Especially in public,” Steve went on. “That old lady in the grocery store yesterday was about a second away from whacking me over the head with her cane.”

“Aw, you could out-run her.”

Steve smiled, remembered he was trying to be mad, and deliberately scowled. The whole thing had a dizzying effect on Tony. Although, admittedly, that was nothing new. Everything Steve did seemed to affect him in that way. Since they’d moved into the bedroom a week ago--since they’d made love for the first time--Tony had been existing in a state of low-grade agitation that never let up. Every sense and feeling he had felt heightened. Everything from happiness, to anger, to plain old tiredness seemed exponentially _more_ than before. If he hadn’t been in reasonable shape, he would have been worried about his health. Even so, he did worry a little. Exponentially more than he had before.

And Steve felt it, too.

Case in point--the toothpaste incident. Nobody got so worked up over a slightly crusty toothpaste, but they had yelled at each other for over an hour before calming down and drawing an almost-literal line in the sand. Tony had even measured it, calculating the exact math in his head and saying with deadly patience, “Okay, _Captain,_ this 26 ¾ inches are yours. This 26 ¾ inches are mine. I’ll keep mine the way I want, and you keep yours the way you want.”

“Fine with me, _Stark_.”

They made out for two hours after that. Tony’s orgasm had been earth-shattering.

_Folie a deux_.

French, again.

Tony came into the bathroom and leaned over the back of the chair. He put his arms around Steve’s broad shoulders and nibbled at his neck under his right ear. It was a good spot. It was his spot. He’d claimed it the night before when kissing it, Steve had clutched his hair, held his head in place, and told him--not asked, told him--not to stop.

Afterward, Tony licked a little circle with the tip of his tongue. “This is mine now, baby,” he said. “Henceforth, nobody touches it but me, ‘kay?”

Steve laughed low in his throat. “'Henceforth'? Where did you pick that up?”

“I spent a semester at Cambridge.”

“Sounds like a hell of a place.”

“Well, we can’t all have spent all our childhood in Brooklyn.”

“Hey,” Steve warned, eyes flashing.

“Don’t worry,” Tony soothed, kissing his spot until Steve sighed. “I wouldn’t dream of insulting your precious Brooklyn.”

Steve closed his eyes, his breath coming in long, languid pulls. “See that you don’t.”

He was doing the same now, breathing slow and deliberate, and Tony loved how he turned into a contented kitten in his hands.

“You’re not mad, are you?” he asked.

Steve kept his eyes shut, drew his lower lip in and closed his teeth around it. “Mm-mm.”

“Was that a yes or a no?” Tony asked, then sucked lightly.

“No,” he breathed. “Not mad.”

“Then, play with me.”

Steve let his head fall to the side in amused exasperation. His eyes were still closed, but he smiled. “Okay. Say it.”

“Hey, you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Thank you,” Tony said and kissed his spot once more before straightening up.

“We should get one of those swear-jars,” Steve said, running his hands through his hair, smoothing the place Tony had mussed with his evil hands.

Tony laughed. “We’re way past swear-jars, Steve. We’d need like a swear-dumpster.”

Steve smiled his little half-smile at Tony’s reflection. “I couldn’t afford it anyway.”

Tony flapped a hand at him. “What’s mine is yours, and all that. You could afford it.”

Steve shook his head and squared his shoulders. “How do I look?”

Tony gave him a critical eye. Jeans, sneakers, dark blue button-down. The cuffs were unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow, exposing sinewy forearms, the collar open just enough for a white t-shirt to peek out. His face was smooth, his hair, dark blond and thick, touched the collar of his shirt.

“Gorgeous,” Tony said truthfully.

“Healthy, though?” he asked. “Mental-healthy?”

“I don’t think that’s the technical term, but yeah, all kinds of mental-healthy.”

Steve gave him a small, distracted smile. “I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous,” he said. “You’re going to be great.”

“Do you really think so, Tony?” His voice was worried and hopeful, and Tony felt his heart ache with love for him. Heightened as it was by their shared madness, it nearly brought him to his knees.

He came around the chair and sat on the vanity so he could look Steve in the eye. No reflection was enough for this, he wanted the real version. He plucked Steve’s hand out of his lap and held it in both of his own. 

“This guy is supposed to be good. I even asked Dr. Wilkes about him, and he said he’s only heard good things. He’s like a doctor, and a research guy, all kinds of stuff.”

Steve bit his lip. “I don’t know if I can handle another genius.”

“You better not be handling another genius,” Tony said, getting the smile he’d hoped for. “Seriously, though, baby, he’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried about him,” Steve said. “I’m worried about me. I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You’re not going to. You literally _can’t_. You just talk, okay? It’s unfuckupable.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth lifted, and he raised an eyebrow. “Is that a technical term?”

Tony leaned in and kissed his mouth. “Yup.”

\---

**The nurse was a redhead. Tall, thin, leggy. Tony almost couldn’t look at her.**

**-How is he**

**-The doctor will come talk to you**

**-Why can’t you just tell me**

**-...**

**-He’s okay right**

**-He’s still in surgery**

**-How much longer**

**-We need to take your blood pressure**

**-Fuck my blood pressure how much longer**

**-I don’t know**

**-You have to know something you work here for Christ’s sake how much longer**

**-Mr. Stark**

**-Tell me something anything**

**-The doctor will come talk to you**

**-Fuck off**

\---

“He wants me to take pills.”

Tony sat in a bright bar of sunshine, sunglasses on even indoors, a cup of coffee and a Danish by his hand. The diner was low-key and mellow most of the time, and now in the three o’clock lull between lunch and dinner, it was deserted.

He picked up the prescription sheet Steve had tossed onto the table.

200 mg. Sertraline

“Baby, it’s just Zoloft. It’s not a big deal.”

“I don’t wanna take pills,” Steve said, his voice firm. “You said it was just talking. Nobody ever said I had to take drugs.”

Tony sighed. “It’s not ‘drugs’, Steve, it’s an antidepressant. It’s fine.”

“I am _not_ depressed.”

“Fine,” Tony said, throwing the bit of paper back down onto the table. He picked up his coffee. It was almost gone, and if his hand shook the tiniest bit, no one would ever notice. “You don’t want to take ‘em, don’t take ‘em.”

“I don’t want to take them.”

“Fantastic.” He swallowed the rest of his coffee. “Do you want anything?”

“I wanna go home.”

“Fine.”

They drove home in silence as bitter as the dregs of Tony’s coffee. When they pulled up, Tony turned the car off, got Steve’s chair out of the trunk, and wheeled it to the passenger side.

“I’m going to the garage,” he said shortly.

“You do that,” Steve snapped back.

Tony turned his back and started for the garage. He ignored the metallic clang of the chair as Steve wrangled his way into it, then the click and clatter of gravel as Steve wheeled toward the front door. He anticipated the slam, but still winced at the flat clap of wood on wood. He wasn’t the only one. A flock of birds took off from the tree, stopping mid-gossip to take startled wing, darkening the blue sky. Somewhere nearby, a dog began to bark, shouting that he, too, had been startled by the slamming door. To Tony, it sounded like the canine version of an old man yelling, “Get off my lawn!” to a bunch of bratty kids. Tony could empathize. Lately, he felt like a crotchety old man himself.

But he was nothing compared to the actual old man in the house there.

He stepped into the garage, the familiar scent of motor oil enveloping him. It was tinged with the faintest hint of leather and the earthy odor of horses. This had been a stable once, a long time ago, but no horse had been inside for twenty years.

Maria had liked to ride, and on the few occasions the family had come up here for the day, she had ridden out alone and not come back until nearly dark.

Once, Tony had been outside when she came back, and Jarvis had lifted him up onto the horse to sit in front of his mother in the saddle while she trotted him around the yard a couple of times. When she was done, she rode back over to where Jarvis stood, and Tony had slipped down into his waiting arms. It had been a good moment, a great moment, really, being passed back and forth between the two people he loved and trusted most, everyone smiling, everyone happy, no Howard there to ruin it.

That night, Tony replayed it in his head, except he pretended that Jarvis was his father and was married to his mother, and after Maria put the horse away, they all went into the cabin and had dinner together. And there was no fighting. No crying. No long silences filled with only the sound of cutlery squealing against the plates. No worry that at any moment his father would get angry, because _Jarvis_ was his father, and Jarvis was never angry, at all.

A powerful wave of homesickness for Jarvis rolled over Tony as he flipped the lights on in the garage. Both for the man himself, and even for the AI version Tony had created. He tried not to think about it too much, now with Vision gone, but having even a virtual Jarvis had been a real comfort to him over the years. He missed hearing his voice.

Tony felt a little bad about that. FRIDAY was great. Even if she did prefer Steve to him.

“FRI, honey, I’m home.”

“Good afternoon, boss.”

“How’s tricks?”

“Everything is running smoothly, and all systems are on-line.”

“That’s my girl.”

The bright banks of fluorescents lit his work bench, his tools, the two cars he’d bought to work on, and the old leather couch from his lab in the Tower. He’d had the couch shipped up especially. It had seen him through too many sleepless nights to just leave it to gather dust while he was on sabbatical. Who knew, he might end up on it again tonight.

“Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

“The squirrel was back. It knocked over the bird-feeder again.”

“Furry little bastard,” Tony muttered. “I should just use the gauntlet. Half a second is all it would take.”

“I don’t think Captain Rogers would like that, boss.”

Tony picked up a wrench and tapped it against the table. She was right. Steve liked the squirrel. He thought it was funny. “Probably not.” He paused, still tapping the wrench restlessly. “Where is Steve, FRI? What’s he up to?”

“He’s in the bedroom.” Then, in a tone that sounded slightly accusatory, “He seems upset.”

“Is he okay?”

“Would you like a visual?”

“No. Just a basic assessment.”

FRIDAY rattled off a list of his vitals--blood pressure: normal, heart rate: normal, temperature: one degree above normal, but non-threatening. “I don’t think his issue is physical, boss. He just looks sad.”

_Yeah, I’ll bet he does_ , Tony thought. To FRIDAY, he said, “Keep 713-B active, ‘kay?”

“Sure thing.”

“Music to 65.”

Then Mick Jagger was strutting his way through “Satisfaction”, and Tony went to work. Those engines weren’t going to rebuild themselves.

Tony had no idea how long he worked before deciding he wanted a drink of water and maybe some pre-emptive Tylenol--the couch sometimes did a number on his old-man back--but when he came out from under the hood, Steve was there, watching him.

“Music off, FRI,” Tony called, and it shut off right in the middle of an Axl Rose scream.

Tony leaned against the car and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. He looked at Steve. Steve looked back. Those lethal eyes were in full effect tonight. Steve may not believe in their existence, but there they were, killer as ever. Like Cujo.

Tony sighed, not wanting to be affected by him and being affected anyway. Finally, he rolled his eyes to the rafters and said, “Hey, you.” It was grudging, trying to still be angry, and failing miserably.

That half-smile. Those big blue eyes from under his lashes. “Fuck you.”

Tony was on his feet and across the garage in five large steps. Steve wrapped his arms around his waist and buried his face in Tony’s stomach. Tony hugged him, clenching his fist in his shirt, the other around his neck.

“What the hell, Steve?” he said into his hair, and Steve shook his head.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“Are we ever going to get this right?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll take them.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“No, I said I’d do this. I meant it. I’ll take them.”

“I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do. That’s not what this is about.”

“I know. But they can’t make me _worse_ , can they?”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. I’m awful without them. Maybe they’ll make me better.”

“You’re not awful.”

“I’m not good.”

“Yes, you are. You are good. You’re the only good thing.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby.”

“I’ll get better.”

“I know.”

“I promise.”

“I know.”

\---

**He stank.**

**He could smell himself, sweat, and exertion, and anxiety, and over all that, like rancid icing, the high, rich tang of blood, coppery like pennies, so present he had not even been aware of it until now.**

**He looked down at himself. The black t-shirt disguised the worst of it, but there were stripes and streaks of gore on his jeans, his arms. It was grimed into the lines of his palms, dried under his fingernails. There were drips and spots on his shoes, too. They were brand-new. He’d only gotten them a few days ago. Ruined now. Blood never came out of leather.**

**_Well, I always did love the thought of having Steve all over me,_ he thought, and that was too much. He jumped to his feet and ran to the bathroom.**

**It was a private one, and with the chair in the corner, he assumed it was for breast-feeding mothers who wanted a little privacy. He shot the bolt, already tearing at his shirt.**

**The water was cold when he turned it on. Cold for blood, he remembered, and he thrust the shirt under the faucet. Blood streamed out of the fabric. Watery, thin, muddy-colored blood ran down the drain. He closed his eyes, fighting urgently with his stomach that wanted to heave. He wouldn’t let it. He wouldn’t throw up over _this_. He _would not_. This wasn’t some Hydra agent’s blood, it wasn’t some random civilian’s that, while important, maybe did not affect him personally. This was Steve’s blood. _Steve’s_. This was a part of him, a part that had, so very recently, been inside him, coursing through his veins, his arteries, carrying nutrients, carrying messages from his brain, keeping him alive.**

**And now here it was, that most precious of precious liquids, running down the drain of a hospital sink instead of inside the delicate, fragile, easily-pierce-able envelope that was designed to keep him safe. Skin. What the fuck, nature? You put something so soft and tender on the _outside_? Tony would design it better, _had_ designed it better. Iron all the way, baby. Safe. Solid. Dependable. Not as nice to stroke, perhaps. Not as nice to kiss. Not as nice to feel crowded up against your back, hip to hip, and shoulder to shoulder, while lying in bed past midnight with the window open and the night breeze coming in redolent of mid-summer wildflowers and the mossy green scent of the lake.**

**But it kept everything inside. Kept everything where it belonged.**

**When the water ran relatively clear, he scrubbed his hands, his arms, his chest. There were tiny droplets of the stuff on his face, caught in his beard, his brows. He scrubbed, using pink, liquid hospital soap that smelled like candy-colored shit and left his skin irritated and raw. Didn’t matter. At least it was clean. He was pretty sure about that, this was a hospital, after all.**

**He turned the water off finally and looked in the mirror. Gash across the right cheek. Bruises on his neck like a raven’s wing. Bruises covering his torso. There might have been a broken rib in there. He hoped not. Hopefully it was just the deep contusions that caused the pain when he moved. Or breathed.**

**_You got off easy, Stark,_ he thought. **

**All of a sudden, he was bone tired. So goddamn tired.**

**He draped his shirt over the sink and eased himself down into the chair. Softness. Oh, thank Christ. He curled up, drawing his knees up until he was a ball that would fit into the lap of that soft, heavenly chair. He closed his eyes. _Good for you, moms_ , he thought. _Most comfortable chair in the place. You deserve it._**

\---

Tony ordered steaks through the butcher in town. 1 ½ inches thick, Kobe Wagyu rib eyes. He read that in Japan, they rubbed the cows with sake or something. Whatever the reason, he paid out the ass for them. He hoped they were worth it.

“What time are they getting here?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Okay,” he said, and wheeled out of the kitchen.

Tony watched him go, half-amused, half-anxious. It was the third time he had asked. Tony thought he was just excited and maybe a little nervous. It had been just the two of them here for over a month, discounting Rhodey’s little day-visit, and it was strange to think of someone else coming into this space.

He ignored the paleness of Steve’s skin. The high-strung, jittery way he scratched his knee, the restless movement of his eyes.

He was just excited. And maybe a little nervous.

Tony took the steaks out of the Styrofoam cooler the butcher had packed them in. God, they were beautiful. More like a piece of fat marbled with meat rather than the other way around. Thank Christ he was a master griller. He wouldn’t trust these babies to just anyone.

“Tony--”

“Three o’clock, baby,” he said. “Just like last time.”

Steve blushed, ducking his head. “Sorry. I know I’m being annoying.”

Tony came around the kitchen island and stood in front of him. He brushed his hair back. “No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re just like a kid on Christmas Eve.”

Steve smiled, the hectic blush easing. “I don’t remember what that was like.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t ever get that. There was always just a party for S.I. We never did the whole ‘Brady Bunch’ family Christmas thing.”

“We went to Midnight Mass. I remember that.” He furrowed his brow, thinking. “Maybe Bucky and his folks came over after?” He shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“We should do it this year,” Tony said. “All of us. Christmas tree, presents, Santa, the whole business.”

Steve cast a skeptical eye around the small cabin. “I don’t think we’d all fit.”

“Sure, we would. Sleeping bags, blow-up mattresses. Ooh, pillow fort. We’d make it work.”

“There’s only one bathroom, Tony.”

Tony stepped closer and Steve’s finger went through his belt loop. He wanted Steve out of this chair more than anything, but a little part of him would miss this. Standing over Steve, looking down at him, Steve’s head tilted up, his finger through the belt loop. It was one of the good things--the only good thing--that had come out of Steve being confined like he was.

“So, maybe we build an addition on. Another bathroom, a couple more bedrooms. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Steve’s eyes shone, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world. Or, at least the best thing. “Yeah? You’d want to do that?”

Tony smiled, his heart pounding in his chest, thinking he’d rip his own lungs out and hand them over on a silver platter if that’s what Steve asked him to do. “Sure,” he said. “We’ve got to have room for all our kids, don’t we?”

Steve took hold of Tony’s t-shirt and tugged. Tony bent down gladly. “How do you just keep getting better?” Steve asked.

“‘Cause of you.”

“Kiss me.”

Tony did as he was told, slowly and thoughtfully, exploring Steve’s familiar mouth with his tongue, loving how he knew just what to do to make Steve shiver. He’d always heard them say familiarity bred contempt. What did they know?

Steve pulled back, his fingers travelling to the button on Tony’s jeans. “Three o’clock, huh?”

Tony’s eyes went to the clock on the microwave. Two-fifteen. “Make it quick, soldier,” he said.

Steve did.

  
At three o’clock, pretty much on the dot, Tony heard a car in the drive. Steve was in the shower. Tony had repaid the favor, getting on his knees right there in the kitchen. They only had a few minutes, but Steve was easy to push up and over, thank you, Dr. Erskine, and wanted a quick wash before the guests arrived. Needed one. They’d been a little careless.

Tony looked around, making sure everything was okay. He didn’t really care if anyone knew about their daytime trysts, but Steve would be embarrassed. He didn’t want to embarrass Steve.

When he was sure the kitchen was clean and there was no trace of their most recent dalliance, Tony opened the door and went outside. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face or the spring in his step as he went down to greet them. He teased Steve for missing “the kids” too much, but now that they were here, his own heart burst with joy at seeing them.

“My god,” he said, as Natasha strolled toward him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“You too,” she said, smiling, and kissed his mouth before putting her arms around him. Tony hugged her firmly, then turned to Sam.

“It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Tony,” Sam said, shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder.

Bruce came from behind the car--nothing fancy, just an older-model Prius, nothing like Rhodey’s Lexus or Tony’s gas-guzzling, gorgeous old Bentley. Tony grabbed him in a bear-hug and Bruce looked both shocked and pleased. Tony released him, grabbed his face in his hand and said, “What did I do without this face, huh? You’re so cute, I could eat you up.”

“Hands off, Stark,” Natasha said, and Bruce blushed.

Oh.

Tony almost let him go, and instead, pulled him closer, wrapping his arm around him, tugging him against his side. “I don’t think I can give him up without a fight.”

Nat looked at him flatly. “You don’t want to fight me. You know how that will end.”

Tony’s eyes flicked to Sam and he held his hands up. “Leave me out of this,” he laughed. “She’s put me on the floor more times than I can count.”

An evil, manic glint came into Tony’s eye. Good god, he _had_ missed them. “Challenge accepted,” he said, and when Nat leapt in the air, graceful and deadly as a cheetah, Tony put Bruce in front of him, using him as a human shield.

“Hey!” he squawked. “Leave me out of this, too.”

Tony tossed him aside and he and Natasha rolled to the ground, playfully tussling. Bruce sidled closer to Sam who just folded his arms, watching them wrestle.

Nat, as supple and strong as she’d ever been, slipped around him and fit her legs into his in a complicated leg-lock. Tony groaned at the pressure on his knees and hips.

“Give up?” she asked, and her voice was as polite as if she were asking for more wine at a dinner party.

“Fuck no.”

She tightened her grip and Tony was thrilled for one second that she was on his side and would never really try to hurt him. She could have snapped him in two.

“I said--” she began, and then suddenly, amazingly, the pressure was gone. Tony had squeezed his eyes shut when she grabbed him, and now they flew open.

Natasha was getting to her feet, her eyes on the house. Tony rolled over and looked.

Steve was sitting on the porch. He’d changed into a blue Henley and pushed the sleeves casually up. His hair had darkened a bit over the years, but now it shone gold in the sunlight. His blue eyes, so big and bright, sparkled with happiness. He was still a little pale, and he was still seated in his chair, but Tony caught his breath, seeing him there. And he wasn’t the only one. No eye could stray from him, so perfect in that bar of golden July sun.

“Steve,” he heard Natasha say, and then she was gone. She moved slowly until Steve raised his hand to her, his lips curving into a bashful smile, then she went faster.

She mounted the steps, her eyes never leaving his face, and knelt before him. It seemed almost ecclesiastical, as though she were one of the pious seeking a god’s benediction. She touched his hand, brought her fingertips to his cheek.

Steve said nothing, just looked at her, tears brimming in his eyes, making them shine all the brighter. He reached out and touched the soft fall of her hair.

Tony got to his feet and walked to where Bruce and Sam stood, watching the two on the porch. No one spoke, not even a bird cried, as if knowing this moment was sacred. It was peace, love, friendship defined, and even when Natasha rose up higher on her knees and kissed him, Tony did not feel jealous. Instead, he felt uplifted, honored to be here to witness this coming together of two people he loved so much.

Steve’s tears finally over-spilled his lashes as Natasha broke their kiss, and she took him into her arms. He put his face into the crook of her neck, his strong arms around her tiny waist, and held onto her tightly, as if she was his only link to the world, as if she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Now, a tiny flare of jealousy flashed through Tony’s heart. He stomped it out quickly, but a spark remained, especially when Steve caught Sam’s eye and beckoned him forward. Sam went, his own eyes tearful, and dropped to one knee beside the chair. Steve loosed one arm from Nat’s waist and pulled Sam to him, clutching him close.

As close as Tony and Steve were now, it was easy to forget that for two years, they had not seen or spoken to each other. For two years, whatever feelings he’d had toward Steve had been not only hard, but hateful. Tony had gone to sleep at night wishing he was there, not so he could hold him, but so he could punch him in his perfect teeth. Some mornings, he’d woken up, that goddamn flip-phone already in his hand, so ready to call him just to tell him how much he hated him, how much Steve had hurt him, how often he wished Steve would make the world a better place, and just fucking _die_ , already.

For two years, Tony had not been the one sharing his bed and sharing his life. It had been Natasha, Sam, and Wanda who had been there for that. Nat, Sam, and Wanda who had been with him, ate dinner with him, talked to him, laughed with him, bandaged his wounds after combat, helped him with his uniform when he was too sore to do it alone.

Which one had comforted him when he had nightmares? Which one had made his tea with lemon and sugar instead of honey because I-don’t-like-honey-Tony-I’ve-told-you-a-hundred-times? Which one did he lie on the deck with and watch the stars, listening with a faraway expression while they explained the constellations to him? Did he take their hand and raise it to his lips like he’d done with Tony? Did he put his head in their lap while they watched tv? Did he breathe their name in the cool watches of the night as they made love?

Tony ducked his head, rubbing his temples with the fingers of one hand. It was ridiculous, thinking like that. He knew it. Whatever answers there were to those questions meant nothing now. _He_ was the one who belonged to Steve now. _He_ was the one who got to experience those things. _Him_. Not Nat or Sam or Wanda. Tony gripped that knowledge and held onto it tightly, his knuckles white with force.

“Come on,” Bruce said quietly, beside him. “Let’s give them a minute.”

Tony looked at his calm, kind face and nodded. _Thank god for Bruce Banner_ , he thought.

  
The steaks were perfect, if Tony said so himself, fatty, juicy, tender bits of deliciousness that maybe weren’t quite worth what he’d paid, but still pretty damn good. Tony was especially gratified when Sam, who was always perfectly friendly, but never truly warm, wrapped him in a surprise hug and declared it was the best meal he’d had since his momma had passed away. The others agreed unanimously, and Tony indulged in ten minutes of preening glory.

They sat out on the deck after dinner, catching up, reminiscing, and laughing. Steve had abandoned his chair and sat on the old wicker sofa, his feet propped up on the table. Natasha was curled up next to him, her legs tucked under her, head on his chest, arm around his waist. Steve had thrown his arm around her shoulders and twirled a lock of her hair continuously around his thumb.

 _My god, the beautiful children they would have made_ , Tony thought, looking at them without a trace of his earlier jealousy.

He’d taken a walk down to the dock with Bruce, giving the three former rogues some time to themselves, and when they came back, twenty minutes later, Steve had grinned up at him and taken his hand.

The casual touches and easy, friendly looks he’d grown accustomed to over the past month did not disappear when their friends showed up. Tony had been half-afraid Steve would retreat from him a little with the others there and had mentally prepared himself for that. But that didn’t happen at all. Steve treated him exactly the same as he had since they’d gotten over their initial coldness. He held his hand, casually ran his fingers through his hair, and even went so far as to pick a fight with him over the grilling of the steaks. Crazily, it had been that even more than the lingering touches he gave him that made Tony feel the most confident in what they were building here together. Any couple could put their best face forward for company. Only the strongest ones would give them a glimpse behind the curtain. 

Looking at Bruce solidified his confidence even more. He sat in the chair next to Tony’s, a bottle of beer near his hand, telling an involved story about New Zealand, some sheep, and the unfortunate appearance of The Hulk.

“...by the time the herders got back, the Hulk was gone, and there I was, naked, in the middle of a bunch of sheep,” he said.

Everyone laughed, and Steve asked, “What did they say?”

Bruce sipped his beer. “They, uh, didn’t seem too surprised, actually,” he said, and blushed. “They just told me to let them know when I was finished and walked away.”

Tony and Sam cracked up, shouting laughter at the sky. Steve rolled his eyes, and Natasha cast a small, cat-like smile in Bruce’s direction. Bruce’s face grew alarmingly red and he downed the rest of his beer.

“I love that story,” she purred against Steve’s chest.

Bruce had never looked happier, Tony thought, and if he could look like that while the woman he loved was in the arms of another man, then Tony certainly couldn’t feel upset about it. Especially when Steve caught his eye and winked.

They lapsed into a warm, affectionate silence, sipping their beers, watching the insects bump and tumble over the lights, the sound of the lake casting itself onto the beach a quiet constant. _So glad we did this,_ Tony thought lazily, looking at the sky. _We deserve this. All of us do._ He looked at all of them. Sam looking at the stars, a contented smile on his handsome face. Nat curled against Steve’s chest, her eyes on Bruce. He looked back, steady, adoring, so obviously in love it was almost funny. Would have been funny if Tony hadn’t felt the same look on his own face from time to time when he looked at Steve.

He looked at Steve now, and sat up straighter, faint worry driving away most of the happiness. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed, those three lines between them.

“You okay, baby?” Tony asked, but Steve didn’t answer.

Natasha sat up, concern printed immediately on her face. “Steve? Honey, are you alright?”

He said nothing, did not move. Nat touched his face gently. “Steve?”

Steve started, as if she had woken him. He looked at her, his eyes clouded. “Yeah. Yeah, Peggy, I’m fine.”

Nat shot a look at Bruce. He shook his head, bewildered. She turned her eyes to Tony. He looked back silently. It had startled him as much as it had her.

Sam stood up and touched Steve’s shoulder. “Steve?” he said calmly. “Steve?”

Steve blinked up at him, the clouds leaving his eyes. “Oh. Hey,” he said. “Did I fall asleep? I didn’t miss the end of the story, did I?”

Sam kept his hand on his shoulder, moving his thumb in small soothing arcs. “You might have. What do you remember?”

Steve looked at Bruce. His smile was simple. Beautiful. “The Hulk was with some sheep.”

Bruce nodded. “That’s right.”

“What happened?”

“The herders came back just in time,” Bruce answered kindly. “We all parted friends.”

Steve let out a happy breath. “Oh. That’s good. I’m glad.” He turned to Sam. “Remember that cow in Brussels?”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, man, I do. Trying to forget it, actually.”

Steve laughed, the sound a little forced in the night air. “ _I’ll_ never forget it.”

“I guess one of us has got to remember it, huh?”

“Nat remembers, too. Don’t you?”

She nodded, her smile easy, her eyes dark and watchful. “You bet I do.”

Steve patted Sam’s hand. “You go ahead and forget it, Sam,” he said. “Me and Nat will remember it for you.”

“Deal.”

Steve looked at Tony. There were strain-lines on his face. “I’m tired,” he said, then glanced around at the others. “I’m sorry, guys. I hate to be the wet blanket, but…”

Sam shook his head, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s alright, Steve. You go on to bed.” He lifted his eyes to Tony and looked at him steadily, conveying with his eyes alone what the expectations were: _Watch him. Take care of him. Don’t leave him alone._ “Tony will go with you.”

Steve turned back to Tony. “You don’t have to.”

He stood up and ruffled Steve’s hair. “No, I’m tired, too.” He leaned closer. “Besides, if we cut out now, these guys have to clean up.”

Steve laughed, and Tony got his chair so he could slide into it. Nat kissed him on the cheek, and Bruce said, “Good night.”

Sam touched his shoulder. “See you in the morning.”

Steve squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

“Me too.” He smiled at Steve, then looked at Tony seriously. “We’ll talk to you tomorrow, Tony.” _Watch him. Take care of him. Don’t leave him alone._

Tony nodded and met each of their eyes in turn. “Yeah. That sounds good.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good stuff and the bad stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate myself right now.

**He fell asleep.**

**Of course, he did. The exhaustion, the sudden softness of the chair, the fear, the worry, the expenditure of adrenaline, of fucking _course_ , he fell asleep.**

**When he woke up, he could barely move. It had been easy getting into the chair, but unfurling himself from it was almost impossible.**

**_Goddamn, how did Steve make it look so easy?_**

**He straightened his legs and stretched, his entire spine crackling. “Oh, god,” he muttered, not knowing if it was a curse or a prayer, and stood up. He stumbled, catching himself on the sink, and grabbed his shirt. It was still damp, but not wet, so he’d probably only been out for an hour. He hoped.**

**He yanked it over his head, used the toilet, washed, then left the bathroom, still rubbing his eyes. Rain still fell from a sky that was beginning to lighten a little, going from the churning black of night to the glum gray of dawn. So, it was morning.**

**July 4th.**

**God bless America.**

**Tony went to the nurse’s station. He ran a hand through his hair. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice still gruff from sleep. The nurse--the redhead--looked up, her eyes flashing with anger. She didn’t look like Pepper in the face, but in that moment, she could have been her twin. Tony fell back a step, feeling like he’d gone back in time to his party days. And if _that_ wasn’t enough to finally kill him, nothing would. He would probably live forever now. Like Sisyphus with his boulder.**

**“Where were you?” she hissed. “The doctor came to talk to you about your friend.”**

**Tony’s face fell. His heart tumbled to somewhere around his knees.**

**“He waited for as long as he could, but he had rounds to make.”**

**“Where is he? I’ll go find him.”**

**“You will do no such thing,” she said, standing. Oh yeah. _That_ was familiar. “You may be king of the world out there, Mr. Stark, but you don’t own this place. Go sit down, keep your mouth shut, and wait. The doctor will find you when he’s available.”**

**She kept her voice low during her lecture, and now she pitched it even lower, leaning closer over the counter. “That young man is in very serious condition.” Hatred bled through every word. “Try not to disappear this time.”**

**Tony nodded, dumb and chastised, thinking that as much as this woman hated him, it was nothing to how much he hated himself right now. “Okay,” he muttered. “Thank you.”**

**“Oh, I like her.”**

**Tony turned around and his shoulders fell. He did not know if the tears that were suddenly in his throat were ones of embarrassment, frustration, or sheer gladness to see him. Take your pick. Or, more accurately, combine all three.**

**Mild eyes studied him with amusement and haughty disdain. Yeah, unfortunately, that was familiar, too.**

**Tony sighed, giving in. “Thanks for coming, Doc.”**

**Strange shook his head. “Tell me what happened.”**

**Tony told him what happened.**

\---

They stood out on the deck, all three looking down the green slope of the lawn to the sandy shore below. Steve and Bruce were down there, wandering near the edge where the grass meets the sand. They were far enough away that they could not make out what they were saying, but Steve’s posture was easy and relaxed, and when Bruce spoke, Steve laughed, shaking his head.

No one on the deck was laughing.

“Has that ever happened before?” Sam asked, and Tony knew exactly what he meant even though none of them had spoken until now.

“No.”

“Nothing like that? No lapses like that?”

_Shifting in the dark. Sudden pressure. A hand on him._

“Not like that, no.”

“ _Was_ he asleep?” Natasha asked. “Did he just doze off?”

“He heard the rest of the story. He asked Bruce a question.”

Nat cast another glance at the beach. “How could he not remember? It was five minutes.”

Tony followed her troubled gaze. Bruce was pushing the chair. Steve didn’t seem to mind, content to just ride, chatting animatedly. Tony felt a tug of jealousy... _never lets_ me _push him_...and shoved it away, feeling small. This wasn’t about him.

“We were talking about Christmas yesterday,” he said. “He couldn’t remember how they used to celebrate it.” He looked at Sam a trifle defensively. “But it was ninety years ago! He’s _old_. I thought he’d just forgotten.”

Sam reached out and clasped his shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up. This isn’t your fault,” he said, and Tony felt a surge of gratitude. No wonder Steve loved this guy so much.

“What else? Has anything changed?”

_Furtively slipping inside his boxers, skin on skin, spit-slick, calloused, so good. A moan. “Shh. God, be quiet.”_

Tony closed his eyes. “He didn’t want anyone to know,” he said.

“Know what?” Nat asked.

“He started seeing a psychiatrist.”

Sam and Natasha exchanged a look. One that Tony was entirely left out of, and he didn’t like it one bit. He imagined an entire conversation happening between those locked eyes. _This is how they communicate,_ he thought. _If Steve was here, he’d be a part of it, too. Because they own a part of him I’ll never have._

“We’re just hearing this now?” Nat asked, her eyes resting once again on Tony.

“I told you. He didn’t want anyone to know.”

“We’re not just ‘anyone’, Tony.”

Tony folded his arms. “Oh, trust me, I know _that_.”

“Exactly what is that supposed to mean?”

“We all know what it means.”

“That was a long time ago now, Tony,” she said dangerously. “Let it go.”

“I can’t let it go,” he said in a loud, angry whisper, looking over his shoulder to where Steve and Bruce still lazed along the shoreline. “Because none of _you_ will let it go. The three of you all huddled together, your _stories_ , and your _looks_ , leaving me and poor Bruce out like we--”

“Don’t you dare drag him down to your level, Stark,” she said. “You don’t--”

“Guys!” Sam said loudly.

They stopped talking, but neither dropped their eyes, flashing daggers at each other in the sun. 

“I get that there are feelings here, but this isn’t helping Steve.”

Nat’s eyes softened at the same time as Tony’s.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said.

“No. No, come here,” she said, and pulled him into her arms, hugging him fiercely. “I didn’t mean--”

“No, I know. Me neither.”

“I know.”

She kissed his cheek and released him.

Sam stood by, his eyes traveling back and forth between them. “Wow. That was easy.”

Tony knocked his shoulder against Natasha’s. “Not our first rodeo, huh, kid?”

“Or our last.”  
  
He put his arm around her and kissed her temple. She leaned against him. “Tell us about the doctor,” she said.

“Yeah. How long has he been seeing him?”

Tony shrugged. “A couple of weeks. He’s been six times, I guess.”

“Three times a week?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.”

Sam grunted non-committedly. “But he hasn’t put him on any medication, right?”

“Zoloft. 200 mg.”

“That’s normal," Nat said.

Tony nodded. “Yes.”

“What’s changed since then?” Sam asked.

Tony squirmed uncomfortably, debating.

“What?”

He put his head in his hand. “Last night…”

There was a considering silence between the three of them. Sam broke it, his voice kind. “Go on. Tell us. We can’t afford to be embarrassed.”

“It was...different,” Tony said, after a long pause.”

“Different how?” Sam asked. Tony shifted, and Sam explained, “We don’t need, you know, details, just tell us why it was different.”

Tony sighed, slumping against the deck railing. “I was kind of shocked it happened at all. You know Steve, he’s...proper. I didn’t think with you guys in the house…”

  
_The silence was unnerving, his hand moving fast, nothing like the long, easy strokes he usually gave him when they did this. Steve liked to take his time, keeping his movements slow, deliberate, wasting nothing, giving everything, keeping Tony on edge for as long as he possibly could._

_The first time Steve had stroked him, Tony had shattered in his hands, then, panting,_ exalted, _asked him where the_ hell _he had learned to do that. Steve had shrugged, smiling his tiny, bashful smile, and said, “On-line, I guess.”_

_“What do you mean, ‘on-line’?”_

_The smile had turned worried. “Was it okay? Or shouldn’t I ask that? I don’t know what the protocol is.”_

_Tony grunted surprised laughter. “Okay?” he asked. “It was fucking_ amazing _.” The worry slipped away, and Tony kissed him. “Now, about this ‘on-line’ thing?”_

_“I typed it into Google.” Pause. “A lot of stuff came up.”_

_Tony laughed, leaning his head onto Steve’s broad, bare shoulder. “Oh, I bet it did,” he said, then kissed the spot that would become_ his _spot under Steve's ear. “Show me what else you learned, soldier.”_

_Steve showed him quite a bit._

_But it had never been like this._

_It wasn’t painful, but it was fast, tense. They had done it fast before, but even then, Steve kept up a steady string of words. He was quite vocal, Tony had found. In fact, sometimes he was more vocal in bed than out of it. It was one of the things Tony loved about what they did. Steve wrapping him up in loving words and praise, telling him how good he was, how beautiful, how perfect. Or just his name, again and again and again, saying it in his ear as Tony did things to him, setting him aflame._

_But this. This was something else. This was different. Foreign. And although it felt good, Tony didn’t like it._

_He tried putting his hand on Steve’s wrist. “Hey. Steve, wait--”_

_“Are you crazy?” Steve whispered, low and urgent in his ear. “No names. If we get caught, it’s a court-martial. Or worse.”_

_The words sent a cold knife into Tony’s heart, his brain._ What the fuck? _He thought._ What the actual fuck?

_Dazed, he lay still while Steve worked his cock in a dry, utilitarian fashion. There was no love behind it, no romance, no feeling at all. No, this was a job he was performing, a duty. This wasn’t the sweet, passionate act Tony had not only grown used to, but actually craved like a heroin addict needing a fix. This was nothing but a quick fuck between acquaintances. Just something to clear the pipes and get through a couple weeks without having to think about it._

_It almost felt like self-defense when Tony came a few minutes later. He felt the heat in his belly, let it come, and shuddered his way through it. He was numb. Cold. Disconnected from himself as he listened to Steve reach his own climax beside him, the whole thing a painful parody of their first time in this bed._

_“That was nice, private,” Steve said in a matter-of-fact, almost business-like manner. And why shouldn’t he sound like that? That’s exactly what it had been. A simple business transaction. There was certainly no feeling behind it. It just happened, and now it was over. No harm done. So why did he feel so used?_

_“Get back to your barracks before you’re missed,” Steve said, then turned on his side, away from Tony. Pulled the blanket up. Slept._

_No harm done._

_Except there had been._

_Tony curled on his side. He had never felt more alone in Steve’s presence. Not even during that week-long period when they had been virtually incommunicado, Tony had never felt like this._

What was that? _He thought and lay awake most of the night trying to figure it out._

_Around six a.m. he fell into a thin, troubled sleep, only to jolt awake two hours later when Steve rolled toward him and fitted himself around him, wrapping his arm around his chest, nuzzling into the back of his neck._

_Tony knew he was awake. He knew the change in his breathing patterns well enough by now. A moment later, as if in confirmation, Steve’s lips were on his neck. Tony kept his eyes closed as he kissed him tenderly twice._

_Then his voice, concerned, deep and rough with sleep. “Tony? Are you alright?”_

_Tony swallowed. “I’m fine.”_

_“Are you sure? You’re like a bundle of wires. Did you have a nightmare?”_

_Tony found himself nodding, near tears. “Yeah.”_

_Steve held him tighter. “I’m sorry," he said. “You should have woke me up. I don’t want you to have to deal with them by yourself.”_

_Tony broke then, and turned toward Steve--his Steve--and curled into him, letting Steve wrap him in his big, comforting arms, letting him kiss his neck, his shoulder, letting him say nonsense words like, “It’s okay,” and “It’s over now.”_

God, I hope so, _Tony thought as Steve soothed him with his hands and his voice, and just the fact of him, the sweet, warm reality of him._ God, please let that be over…

  
“...It was cold. It was like he was a different person.” Tony shook his head. “Whoever it was, it wasn’t _that_ Steve,” he said, jerking his head toward the beach. “It wasn’t _my_ Steve. He didn't even remember it.”

“He called Nat ‘Peggy’,” Sam said.

Tony nodded. “Yeah. He acted like I was a soldier. Just some soldier.”

Natasha looked at him, her eyes soft. “Are you okay?”

“It’s fine,” he answered gruffly. “He didn’t _hurt_ me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He thought he would break down, and held himself back, grappling with the stupid, fucking _useless_ tears that threatened again. _That was nice, private._ Like an arrow through the heart. Why was Cupid always shown with a bow and arrow? It wasn’t cute or sweet when an arrow pierced that most vital organ. It hurt like a motherfucker.

“I will be,” he answered slowly. “When we figure out what the fuck is wrong with him.”

“Fair enough,” Nat said and slipped her other arm around him, holding him protectively against her.

Tears threatened again, but these ones were okay. They were not happy, exactly, but they were grateful. Grateful that they were here, and he didn’t have to do this alone.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and Sam said in a low, barely audible voice, “Tony, on your six.”

Tony fixed a bright smile on his mouth and turned around. They were coming back up the lawn toward them, Bruce still pushing, struggling a little in the grass, Steve helping when they got bogged down. Steve grinned as they got closer, warm eyes only for Tony. _There’s my man,_ Tony thought. _There’s my best guy._ And it was bittersweet, but for now, seeing him, the sweetness far outweighed the bitter.

“There you two are,” Tony said. “I thought you’d run away together. Nat and I were just debating whether _we_ should hook up to get back at you.”

Steve shook his head. “That wouldn’t punish _us,_ Stark,” he said smoothly. “That would punish Nat.”

“Now you’re gonna get it, old man,” Tony said, and vaulted over the railing.

Steve laughed. They all did. And in the distance, clouds began to build on the horizon.

  
\---

  
**Strange was gone for a long time.**

**Tony sat in his chair. He kept his mouth shut. He waited. He could follow orders sometimes.**

**Tony had never seen the man look anything but serious, but when Strange did come back, his face was closed off completely. Tony stood up, wincing at the pain in his lower back--goddamn hospital chairs.**

**“How is he?”**

**“Come with me. We can’t talk out here.”**

**Terror slipped icy hands over Tony’s skin as he followed Strange down a short hallway. He stepped into an office, waited for Tony to come in, and closed the door. The room was cold, austere, with a glass-topped desk and two chairs. There were no pictures on the desk or the walls, just a bookcase filled with medical journals and three framed diplomas on the wall. Dr. Carlos J. Ortiz MD PhD. Tony didn’t know Dr. Ortiz, but it certainly seemed like he and Strange were kindred spirits. This looked exactly like the kind of place Tony imagined him holding court in.**

**“Sit down,” Strange said.**

**“I’ve been sitting all night. How is he?”**

**“He’s not good, Tony.”**

**Tony sat down.**

**Strange fixed him with a stern, uncompromising look. It was a “Howard Stark” look through and through. Even the disappointment was there, lying over the anger, the barely-checked but oh-so-clear dislike. But Tony felt none of the teenage rebelliousness in him now. He just felt tired. Was that what being an adult really boiled down to? Simple resignation to your fate? Looked like it.**

**“I’m going to ignore the fact that you didn’t tell me about the psychiatrist,” Strange said. “But I am astounded that you didn’t tell me about the drugs he’s been taking.”**

**_“Drugs” again. Christ._ “It’s just Zoloft,” Tony said, thinking in the back of his mind that Pfizer should really be paying him a stipend. He’d certainly went to bat for them a lot lately. Against superheroes, no less. “I checked it against his other meds. There shouldn’t have been any reactions.”**

**The disappointment grew. The dislike stayed the same, but it had been pretty strong to begin with.**

**“I’m not talking about the Zoloft. Although that should have been discussed with me, too.” Strange leaned against the desk and folded his arms. “I’m talking about the extreme levels of Delysid and Phencyclidine in his system.”**

**Tony blinked in surprise. “Delysid? Phencyclidine?”**

**“Yes.”**

**Tony stared. “LSD? _PCP?_ What are you talking about? Steve doesn’t drop acid, and he sure as shit doesn’t do Angel Dust. He’ll barely take a Tylenol.”**

**“According to his blood-work he has been.”**

**“Well, then the blood-work is _wrong_ ,” Tony said flatly, and maybe there was still a little bit of rebellion in him, after all. He was pissed.**

**“They ran it twice, Tony,” Strange said. “And his blood is unique enough with Erskine’s serum that there was no mistaking it.”**

**Tony rubbed his face with his hands, wincing at the pain in his cut cheek, but relishing it, too, because he deserved the pain, deserved the hurt, and if Doctor Strange was right, then he deserved it even more than he’d first thought. Steve snorting Angel Dust? The idea was outrageous. Insane.**

**_That was nice, private._**

**Oh fuck.**

**Tony brought his thumb to his mouth and chewed the nail unconsciously. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered, then turned bare, shocked eyes at Strange. “I mean, can you believe this? I know you haven’t known him as long as I have, but you do know him. You know this is crazy, right?”**

**He was silent, considering. Tony let him think, god knew his own mind was whirling. How? Why? When? Reporters’ questions. He hated them. The one especially. The “Why?” one. Steve had been through a tough time lately, but they’d been through other tough times. And he had Tony now. Had someone to lean on, to support him.**

**Tony’s mind cast helplessly back to the reverential way Natasha knelt beside him, the look that passed between them. Complete understanding. Complete trust. The way he nodded against her neck as she whispered words in his ear. The way he simply handed himself over to her with no qualms, no second thoughts. _Why?_ Steve certainly hadn’t been dropping acid when he’d had Nat to anchor him.**

**_It’s me,_ a traitorous, masochistic part of him whispered. _Of course, it’s me. Steve can say what he wants, but we know the truth, don’t we, old buddy, old pal? It’s because of me. I’m the one who’s not good enough. He finally realized it and just doesn’t know how to get the hell out._**

**All these thoughts like a bullet through his brain while Strange thought about Steve’s mental state. Finally, he said, “It does seem out of character for him. But I’m sure you’ve read the statistics for veterans with substance abuse problems.”**

**Tony had. They varied from source to source, one saying one-in-ten, another a staggering 52%, but he understood what Strange meant. The idea left him cold and frightened.**

**“But we’re talking about Steve, here,” he said in a small voice. “He’s not the same as those other people. He’s different.” The irony of him saying those words slapped him fully in the face, even as they left his mouth. How often Steve had told him he was different. How many times Tony insisted he wasn’t. _Please let me be wrong. Just this once, let me be the one who’s wrong._**

**“He is different,” Strange agreed, but Tony wasn’t comforted. “He was plucked from his own time and put here. His Avengers-related stress was constant and insanely high, and now that it’s gone, he probably feels even more stress than before because of the inferiority complex he has, no doubt, harbored since childhood. And--” he paused, discomfort crossing his face, “his recent sexual awakening has probably added to his stress-level.”**

**“So, it _is_ my fault,” Tony mumbled and lowered his head into his hands.**

**“Of course, it isn’t your fault,” Strange said briskly, and patted him on the arm. Tony glanced up, surprised by his tone and his touch. “You obviously love him, and he obviously loves you. It was apparent from the first time I saw you together, and I happen to think that’s a point in his favor. Having a strong personal relationship can be very helpful when dealing with an addiction.”**

**“Are you talking intervention?”**

**The look Strange gave him was an odd one. It was almost kind. Tony’s own stress-level leapt up. Exponentially.**

**“We’re way past that point, Tony. After last night, our only course is immediate hospitalization.”**

  
\---

  
Steve had another lapse after lunch.

He forgot Bucky’s name.

He sat in the kitchen, his hands in the dishwater, looking down at his lap. They’d been talking about Wakanda, how peaceful it was there, how it was almost like here. “Yeah, when I used to go there to…” Steve stopped, his face going pale, paler, palest. “...visit…” He drew in a breath, dropped his eyes. His shoulders tensed, his entire body beginning to shake.

“Steve?” Tony said. “Baby?” He looked at the other three, their worry and fear compounding his own.

“I--” he began, then his eyes were suddenly on Tony’s, big, blue, terrified. “Tony,” he whispered, _pleaded_ in a tiny, cracked voice. “Tony, I can’t remember his name.”

“It’s--”

“No. No, don’t tell me. Please. I know it, Tony, it’s _there_ , I just can’t--” his mouth began to work, tears of fear, of frustration filled his eyes, broke free, and ran down his cheeks.

Silence. No one spoke. No one moved. They just watched helplessly as he struggled, trying so hard to remember the name of the man who had been with him in either body, mind, spirit, or all three for over a century. Trying to remember the name of his best friend.

Suddenly, he turned, cat-quick, super-soldier quick, grabbed a wine glass from the counter, and hurled it against the wall. It exploded in a sharp, deadly rain of crystal. Everyone ducked, covering their faces.

Steve collapsed in on himself, crying, and Tony was there immediately, kneeling before him, taking him in his arms. “Bucky,” Steve sobbed into Tony’s shoulder. “His name’s Bucky, right, Tony? It’s Bucky, right?”

“That’s right, baby,” Tony soothed, holding him tightly. “It’s Bucky. That’s right. That’s just right.”

  
Tony took him into the bedroom and helped him onto the bed. Steve let him help, and that was more telling than anything. He never let Tony help him do anything he was able to do on his own. Tony knew why now. Deep down, he had always known, but it had solidified for him as he watched Bruce push Steve back up the lawn toward him that morning. Steve didn’t care as much what Bruce, or even Sam or Nat, thought of him. He could be more physically vulnerable with them because, in his mind, if push came to shove, he didn’t have to protect them. They were his family, but Tony was his partner. Tony was his _life_ , and Steve wanted to prove he could take care of him, take care of them both, come what may.

Steve.

Steve and his old-fashioned ideas.

Christ, Tony loved him.

Tony helped him onto the bed and kissed his forehead. “Just close your eyes, okay?” he said. “For a little while?”

Steve took his hand, shy and uncertain. “Don’t go, huh?” he said. “Stay for just a minute?”

“Are you kidding?” Tony replied. “An invitation for afternoon cuddles? I’ll never turn that down.”

He kicked his shoes off and got into the bed, climbing over Steve to get where he wanted, and pressed against him. He threw his arm over Steve’s stomach, his leg over Steve’s leg, and nestled his head onto Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s arms came around him, and they lay quietly together on the big bed, both crowded onto the left side, leaving Tony’s untouched.

After a while, Steve spoke. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, baby. You’re perfect.”

“Why couldn’t I remember?”

Tony kissed his shoulder, his chest. “I don’t know. Maybe we should talk to Dr. Baxter, though.”

“He’s out of town for the Fourth.”

“What about that GP in town? Whatsisname? Jackson?”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Tony closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “Maybe I should call Strange.”

“No,” Steve said bluntly. “For this? No. He’s busy, Tony. If Ross wants everybody in for a couple of days, I’m sure Doctor Strange is going too.”

“I can’t believe that piece of shit Ross, calling them back. They were supposed to be on leave until the tenth.”

Steve tightened his grip on Tony, sunk his head into his hair. “It’s just for a couple days. We’ll be okay, won’t we?”

“Of course, we will. We’ve gone this long without trying to kill each other, haven’t we?”

Steve chuckled and the sound sent shivers down Tony’s spine. It always did, that soft, throaty laugh that he only used here, when they were lying in bed together, and it was like Pavlov’s dogs: Tony started to get hard.

“Well, hello, Mr. Stark,” Steve drawled.

Tony punched him lightly in the stomach. “Shut up, asshole. That’s not fair.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Steve said, laughing again.

“You don’t _have_ to do anything, do you? I’m on a hair-trigger all the time. I'm like a goddamn teenager again.”

Steve ran his hand up and down Tony’s spine. “Me too. Except I’m like a teenager for the first time. I didn’t have much luck before.”

“Bullshit,” Tony said, slipping his hand under Steve’s shirt. His skin was so soft there. How could his skin always be so damn soft there? “I’ve seen your picture. You were cute as a button.”

“Yeah. Real cute.”

“You were,” Tony insisted. “If I’d been around back in the day, I would have scooped you up like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. It was the first time he’d done that since Thanos. He was glad he’d done it here, lying secure in Steve’s arms. It didn’t hurt as much as it could have if he’d done it anywhere else.

Steve just laughed. “You would have been the only one. Nobody was too interested back then. Peggy, but she was my C.O. It took us awhile. In fact, we really weren’t supposed to, at all.”

Tony shifted against him, screwing up his nerve. “So, you’re sure you never fooled around a little?”

“With Peggy?” Steve asked. “Just that one kiss.” He laughed, and the sound was pleasant, a nice laugh, untainted by pain. “And we weren’t exactly alone. Or in any kind of position to take it further. If nothing else, Hydra was one hell of a cock-block.”

Tony nearly choked on the laughter that bubbled up in his throat. “I literally cannot believe you just said that,” he wheezed. “Where’s Nat? She’s going to die when she hears this.” He thumped Steve’s chest in excitement. “And Clint! Oh my god, where’s my phone? I’ve got to text him.”

“You weren’t kidding,” Steve said, closing his eyes. “You really are like a teenager again.”

Tony put his phone back into his pocket, making sure the text was saved in his drafts. “Fine,” he pouted. “I’ll tell him later, spoilsport.”

Steve held him tighter. “Okay.”

Tony fell silent next to him, scratching his short nails lightly over Steve’s sides, his stomach. He hadn’t really meant Peggy when he’d asked, and although Steve had made it worth his while, answering the way he had--Tony’s mind was actively turning it into a bumper sticker--he still needed to know the actual answer. He didn’t think it made a difference, but after the other night, he needed to know. For his own peace of mind.

“What about anyone else?” he ventured.

“Anyone else, what?”

“You know…” Tony prodded.

Steve sighed. “I already told you.”

“I know, but...nobody? Not even some nice,” he swallowed past a small blockage in his throat, “private from the Buckeye State or something? A one-nighter?”

Steve shifted beneath him, troubled. “Tony,” he began slowly, “that was illegal then. Even if I’d wanted to--and I didn’t--I couldn’t have. It would have been a court-martial. Or--”

“Or worse,” Tony finished for him, feeling cold.

“Yeah. Or worse.”

“Did guys still do it, though?” Tony pressed. He thought Steve was telling him the truth about himself, but his curiosity was piqued. He wanted to know.

Steve shrugged. His eyes were still closed, and Tony could tell he was tired. Exhausted, maybe. He’d let him sleep. After this.

“I don’t really know,” he said. “Some probably did.”

“But you didn’t know anyone?”

Steve let out a reluctant breath. “There was this one guy,” he said carefully. “A nice kid. Blake, I think. Or maybe Black. He was from Nevada. I remember that. He had a keychain with some dice on it. He said he’d gotten it in Las Vegas, and he carried it to remind him of home.”

Tony lay quietly against his side, feeling the deep rumble of his voice reverberating in his chest. He could see the keychain in his mind’s eye. Could almost see the kid himself--young, blond, skinny but fit, a shadow of teenage acne still on his cheek. He would have looked up to Steve Rogers. Would have been honored that _the_ Captain America was taking the time to talk to him.

Tony saw them in the Mess Hall, identical scoops of army-grade slop on their metal trays, rain coming down outside the tent, turning the camp to soup. Blake shocked to see Captain Rogers at a table alone, doodling on a napkin while he ate. Tony saw him standing indecisive for a minute before thinking, “What the hell?” and sliding in across from Steve. Tony saw Steve look up, surprised but smiling, putting his drawing away while Blake chatted to him. Tony saw Steve listening, nodding amiably at the kid’s stories.

Tony loved him in this scenario. Just as he loved him in all the scenarios he had pictured him in over the years, and he was sure this kid, this Blake (or Black) kid, had went away feeling almost delirious with happiness after their talk. Tony hoped so. If this was going where he was afraid it was going, he hoped Blake had spent the rest of his young life able to call up his lunch with Captain Steve Rogers and see it as a perfect, happy memory.

“He was gay?” Tony asked, and Steve nodded.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

“What happened to him?”

“There was...talk,” Steve said. “You know how stuff gets around. Somebody heard from somebody else. You know. Like that.”

“Yeah.”

“We heard that one night, Blake and some other guy…” he trailed off, and Tony closed his eyes, waiting. “Anyway, the official story was that he was killed in action. That’s what got put on the books. That’s what his mother heard. And I guess it’s probably a blessing that’s the story she got.”

A sick anger roiled in Tony’s stomach. “But that’s not what happened, right?”

“It might have been,” Steve said. “He might have been transferred early that morning and gotten caught in crossfire. I can’t say for sure that didn’t happen. All I know is there were no maneuvers from _our_ camp that night or the next.”

“They killed him,” Tony said. “For being gay. They killed him.”

“It was a different time, Tony,” Steve said softly.

“That’s fucked up, Steve,” he spat. “‘Greatest Generation’, my ass.”

“No arguments here,” he sighed.

Tony pressed his face into Steve’s chest kissed him over his heart. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “I know that wasn’t you.”

“You’re right, though. I miss some of the stuff about back then, but not that. Not the prejudice. The sexism. It would have taken Sam or Rhodey a long time to become officers, and there’s no way Rhodey would have gotten to be a colonel. And Peggy, she fought so hard to get where she was. Nat would have had to do the same. And guys like us…" he shrugged then sighed, running a hand up through Tony's hair. "It _was_ fucked up, Tony. I guess it still is, but at least it’s gotten a little better now.”

Listening to him talk, Tony became even more aware of how amazing Steve was. How easy it would have been for him to fall into one of those categories--racist, sexist, homophobic. It was all around him, all the time, and yet, he resisted. He saw past those things. He saw the good in people, the humanity in them, the fact that there was more to them than their color, or their gender, or who they were wired to love. Thank god, Dr. Erskine had chosen him. Thank god.

“I love you so goddamn much, Steve,” Tony said, but Steve didn’t answer. He was asleep.

Tony lay beside him for a while. The others were waiting for him, but they could wait another few minutes. Tony closed his eyes and rested against his man, his partner, his reason for continuing to breathe, to live. _There’s no me without you_ , he thought. _This is it. You’re it for me._

Tony came out of the bedroom, leaving Steve napping on their bed. Nat, Sam, and Bruce had cleaned up the crystal shards and finished the dishes but were nowhere to be seen. He went outside and saw them loading their go-bags into Bruce’s Prius.

“How is he?” Bruce asked, closing the hatch-back.

Tony shook his head, scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, you guys. What the fuck? He’s fine one minute, he’s...whatever the next.” He sighed. “I’m trying not to freak out, but honestly? I’m freaking out. Hard.”

“Have you called his doctor?”

“He’s out of town. Apparently, you can just leave your patients to sink or swim if you want to go on a holiday.”

“What about Strange?”

“Steve doesn’t want me to call him.”

“Why not?” Sam asked.

“He says he’s ‘too busy’ for this,” Tony said, quirking his fingers into irritated air quotes.

“You need to call him.”

“Steve would be so pissed.”

Natasha came around the side of the car. “I don’t care if he’s pissed. Call him. He’s been Steve’s doctor through all this. He should know what’s going on with him.”

Tony leaned heavily against the car. “I know,” he mumbled. “He’s just such an arrogant prick.”

Nat and Bruce exchanged a look. Sam abstained, suddenly finding a cloud very interesting.

“What?” Tony asked.

Nat bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Nothing,” she said. “Just you and Strange have some stuff in common, that’s all.”

“Like what?” he asked defensively.

“Like being an arrogant prick.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Nice, guys. Thanks. Really. I needed to have the shit kicked out of me when I’m down. That’s very thoughtful.”

“She doesn’t mean it that way,” Bruce said, putting a consoling hand on Tony’s arm while simultaneously shooting a distraught look at Natasha.

“Yes,” she assured him playfully, “she does.”

Tony looked at Sam. “Where do you stand on this?”

He shrugged. “With Steve,” he said simply.

Tony smiled. _This guy…_ “Me too,” he said.

“Me too.” Nat put her arm around Tony and her laid her head on his shoulder.

Bruce nodded. “Me too.”

Tony put his cheek on Natasha’s head. God, it was good to have family. Just to know someone had your back, that you weren’t alone. They may be a bunch of misfit out-casts, but they made each other better. They fit against each other, rough edge to rough edge, to make one smooth whole. He needed them, and they needed him. It was nice. Being needed. He’d never really known how nice it was, before he met them.

Bruce looked at his watch. “We’ve got to…”

Nat squeezed Tony. “Eighteen hours. Okay? I swear that’s all, and then one of us--at _least_ one of us--will be here with you until we get this figured out. Okay?”

Tony nodded.

Sam hugged him and Tony hugged back. It was warm and friendly. _Damn, if I’d met this one first…_ he thought, then quashed it, feeling amused and guilty in equal measure. “Thanks, Sam,” he said.

“Tell Steve good-bye for me. Like Nat said, eighteen hours.”

“‘Kay.”

Natasha and Sam got into the car. Bruce hung back, accepted Tony’s hug, then said, “I’ll talk to Strange. He’ll probably be at the Compound and I can give him an idea of what’s going on.” He wrung his hands, looking worried. “I hate leaving you here. There’s something wrong, Tony. If I didn’t know better…”

Tony frowned. “What?”

“I don’t know. He just seems…”

“You think he’s crazy. Like literally crazy?”

“No,” Bruce said. He shook his head. “I’m going to talk to Stephen. I’ll bring him down when I come back tomorrow. I want us to run some tests. Blood work. Tox screen. Things like that.”

“Tox screen? What--”

“Bruce,” Nat called. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we’re back.”

He waved and nodded. He turned back to Tony and clasped his hand briefly. “I’ll bring Stephen. We’ll figure this out.”

“Thanks, Bruce.”

Bruce slipped behind the wheel of the car. Tony stepped away and waved as they pulled out and drove down the road.

Eighteen hours.

That wasn’t so long.

He went into the house and closed the door. He checked on Steve, then turned on the tv to start the wait. There was a storm coming, the grinning weatherman said. “Better watch yourselves out there, party people,” he said. Tony groaned and turned the tv back off. He’d rather have the silence than _that_ bullshit. He looked at his watch. Seventeen hours, forty-five minutes.

What could happen in that short amount of time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: I am a sloppy researcher. I usually just spend three minutes on Google, then put enough facts in to make my B.S. sound semi-believable. Sloppy research worked for me in my Algebra 1030 class. Sort of. And a shout-out to my professor who gave me a pity C- when I told her I was going to have to drill a hole in my head like that guy in the movie "Pi" so I could sleep at night after all of her freaky mathematical concepts gave me nightmares. They actually did. 
> 
> To be fair, I never really expected anyone to be reading these stories but me so I forgave my bad habits. So, to anyone out there who has actual knowledge of mental health facilities, WWII, bowling, the Russian language, classic cars, drugs, prison, Rolex watches, New York City, or any of the other dozen or so things I "researched", Sorry. To paraphrase Stephen King: for what I got right, thank Google, for what I got wrong, blame me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes to a head...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

**“No. No way. That can’t happen.”**

**“It is happening.”**

**Tony looked at him, wild-eyed. His heart was beating too fast, his mind, his clever, fearless, fucking _brilliant_ mind, a complete blank. “Doc,” he said, “ _Stephen_ , you can’t--he can’t--” he ran a hand through his hair frantically. “That. Can’t. Happen.”**

**Strange was unmoved. He stood, leaning against Dr. Carlos J. Ortiz MD PhD’s chic glass desk, his face a neutral mask but for one eyebrow sardonically raised. Oh, Tony hated him so much in that moment. Wanted to grab him by the shirt and shake him until he rattled, wanted to put on the suit and blast him and his damn praying-mantis face into oblivion.**

**Instead, Tony clenched his fingers deep into his own knee, wrestling with every emotion roiling through his imperfect skin-suit, trying to calm himself, to get himself under some kind of control so Strange would listen to his very rational reasons why Steve _could not_ go to the hospital.**

**Tony took a deep breath. “Doc, please. Please don’t do that. Steve is terrified--literally terrified--of that. He’s had nightmares about it. Nightmares, Strange, like a kid scared of the boogeyman in his closet. They’re…” he paused, searching for the right word to explain how those nightmares were for Steve. And for Tony. Waking up to Steve whimpering and shuddering in his sleep was one of the worst things he had ever experienced in his life. “They’re horrific. You can’t do that to him.”**

**“I have no choice, Tony.”**

**If Tony were less tired, had more strength, if he were even five years younger, he would have leapt to his feet, fought, yelled, threatened, but he was none of those things. Instead, he put his head in his hand. “Please,” he said quietly. “Please don’t. Please just let him come home.”**

**Tony didn’t look up as Strange sighed and moved to sit in the chair beside him. He didn’t look up, but he felt Strange’s eyes on him, calmly assessing. “You don’t understand,” he said, and again, his voice was nearly kind. “I’m not doing this _to_ him. I’m doing this _for_ him.”**

**Now, Tony looked at him. “You’re right. I don’t understand. Explain to me.”**

**Strange leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. “What he did last night...Tony, he’s a danger to himself. And--” he nodded at Tony, eyes cataloging Tony’s cuts and bruises, “others.”**

**“He didn’t mean--”**

**“I know that. But when Thaddeus Ross finds out about this, it won’t matter.”**

**“What the fuck does _Ross_ have to do with this?” Tony asked. “Steve isn’t an Avenger anymore and neither am I. It’s none of his goddamn business what happens to us.”**

**“Actually, it is,” Strange said mildly. Then, face unreadable, he began to recite. With every word, hope drained out of Tony’s body, leaving him nothing but a shell. “‘If an enhanced person becomes mentally incapacitated, he or she shall be interred in Raft Prison until such time he or she is deemed fit to live among the general population again’.” Strange lifted his eyebrows again. “I’m assuming you know where that’s from.”**

**“Oh my god,” Tony whispered hollowly.**

**“Your signature is on those Accords, Tony.”**

**Tony stared at his hands. He did not move. He could not.**

**“But if I take him with me, we have a better chance of keeping Ross out of the loop for a while. It will give us time to assess what happened, and it gives us a legal leg to stand on if a judge can see that he’s being kept safe and under control in my care. When Ross _does_ find out. Because he will.”**

**Tony looked at Strange. He was cold all over. Empty. “I promised him I’d never let this happen, Strange.”**

**“I don’t want to be unkind,” Strange said over his steepled fingers, “but you had no right to do that.”**

**Tony closed his eyes again.**

**“In fact, _I_ have no right discussing this with you. Nick Fury is listed as his next-of-kin, not you. I’m here as a courtesy, Tony. If I wasn’t one hundred percent certain Steve would want it this way, I wouldn’t be talking to you, at all.”**

**Empty. So, so empty. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it?” Tony asked.**

**Strange blinked, sat back and crossed his legs. “No.”**

**Tony turned his hollow eyes on him. “At least let me tell him, okay? Please? Let me explain it to him in a way he’ll understand.”**

**“He’s sedated now,” Strange said in his almost-kind voice. “He’ll stay under sedation until we arrive at the facility.”**

**“No,” Tony breathed. “No, please don’t tell me you aren’t going to just let him wake up in a strange place with strange people surrounding him.” Pause. Pleading now. “Will he be restrained? Christ, Stephen, please tell me that’s not what you’re going to do.”**

**Strange was silent, letting Tony’s pleas wash over him, then said, “It’s for the safety of everyone concerned.”**

**“Fuck me,” Tony moaned, as if he were in pain. And he was. Every word Strange spoke, every word he, himself, spoke, was like a shard of glass against his skin, a needle to his eye, a reed under his fingernail. Steve in a hospital? Steve under sedation? Steve in restraints? The images that flashed through his overworked mind were as painful as sliding into an acid bath.**

**“When?” he asked.**

**“Now.”**

**“Can I at least see him? Will you at least give me that?”**

**“He won’t know you’re there.”**

**“I don’t care.”**

**Strange nodded. “Alright. Follow me.”**

\---

  
Tony checked on Steve again, then went out to the garage and worked on the cars for a couple hours. The inane, sophomoric weatherman was right: it certainly looked like rain. Big black clouds were piling in on each other, coloring the sky, eating up the blue.

The loose community around the lake was sponsoring a firework display tonight before the big celebration in town tomorrow. Tony had donated a couple hundred dollars after the area Girl Scouts came around asking with their big eyes and shy smiles. Steve winked at them as they left, and Tony watched them dissolve into breathy giggles, clutching each other as they left. “He’s _so_ cute!” the blonde cried in what was undoubtedly meant to be a whisper. Smug pride washed over him. _Sorry ladies. Get your own super-soldier boyfriend. This one belongs to me_.

They’d planned on watching the show out on the deck with Nat, Sam, and Bruce, but since Ross had pulled his little stunt and called them in, citing an “influx of terrorist threats against the president”--oh, and Tony _could_ believe _that_ \--he wasn’t sure what they’d do. He and Steve could still watch, he supposed, but fireworks felt like a party thing, something meant for a crowd. He wasn’t sure if it would be as interesting with just the two of them.

_Guess we could just stay inside,_ he thought. _Make a few fireworks of our own._

He smiled as he washed his hands at the sink. That idea was always a good one. Appealing. Enticing. Hot. They’d done a lot since that first time, using their hands and their mouths to get each other off. They still hadn’t gotten to the main event, however. Steve was getting better, stronger every day, and Tony was okay with waiting. He wanted to be able to fully enjoy it when it did finally happen, without worrying that Steve was in any kind of pain. And he wanted Steve to enjoy it. Wanted his first experience to be perfect. Wanted to build on the beautiful, heady, hot foundation they’d already laid. Not like Tony’s own first time. Not like the drunken, alley-way fuck behind a Chinese restaurant in mid-town with some nameless preppie frat-boy who could barely get it in and smelled like beer and Old Spice, panting in Tony’s ear, “You wanted this all night, didn’t you? Wanted daddy so bad, didn’t you?”

Tony _had_ wanted it, but now, all these years later, part of him kind of wished he’d waited for something better to come along, and he was ecstatic that Steve had. The idea was an old-fashioned one--like so many of Steve’s ideas--but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe waiting for a good person was an idea that should not have gone out of style in the first place.

Tony went into the house, saw the bed was empty, and looked out the window. Steve was sitting on the back deck in his chair. His head was bent, exposing that beautiful, long expanse of skin at the back of his neck. Tony loved that part of him. Loved every part of him.

“Hey, you,” Tony said, coming out the back door.

“Fuck you,” Steve answered.

“See now, was that so hard?”

“I guess you’re wearing me down.”

Steve turned his face up to be kissed, and Tony obliged, thinking how easy this was between them now. How easy and perfect and _good_.

“When’d you get up?”

“I don’t know. A little while ago.”

Tony drug a patio chair close to Steve’s and plopped down into it, propping his feet up on the railing. “You should have come and gotten me.”

“Nah. I wanted you to have some time to yourself. You don’t have to babysit me all the time.”

Tony cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t babysit you.”

Steve shrugged, smiling a little. He had his sketchbook on his lap, a charcoal pencil curled loosely in his hand.

“Whatcha working on?”

“Nothing. Just scribbling.”

Tony plucked it out of his lap and looked. It was a sketch of the lake and their little scrap of beach, a suggestion of the trees and meadow. The Bentley was off to the side, just beginning to take shape under Steve’s talented fingers.

It wasn’t much really, just a simple, Saturday afternoon sketch, but there was a refinement to it that raised it far above mere “scribbles”. A grace that felt delicate and brave at the same time. Looking at it filled Tony’s heart with wonder.

“I love it,” he said.

Steve shook his head, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just a doodle.”

“Whatever you say, DaVinci.”

“Shut up, Tony," Steve said, taking the book back. But he was happy. That little half-smile--oh yeah, Tony’s number one favorite thing, alright--was on his lips, shy and pleased.

“Can I have it?” Tony asked. “When it’s done?”

“Are you going to stick it to the fridge with magnets?”

“No, I’m going to frame it and hang it in the living room. Show that Chagall in there who’s boss.”

Steve looked at him, scandalized. “Don’t say that, Tony. Chagall was a _genius_. Do you even know how lucky you are to have that drawing? His use of--”

“Okay, okay, simmer down, fanboy,” Tony said. “Don’t get yourself in a twist. The Chagall’s great.” Although, to Tony’s eye, _it_ looked like scribbles. He tapped Steve’s book. “But I still want this. Okay?”

“Will it shut you up?”

“For a minute.”

“Worth it.”

Tony laughed.

They sat in silence together, watching the water, watching the sky. They were both gray and gloomy, but the warmth between the two men counter-balanced it, made the afternoon cozy instead of cold.

“Did the others get off okay?” Steve asked after a while.

“Yeah. They said to tell you good-bye. We didn’t want to wake you.”

Steve nodded. “When are they coming back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

“No. Don’t apologize. It’s okay.”

“You keep saying that,” Steve said. “I keep doing things, and you keep saying that. When’s it going to stop being okay?”

Tony put his hand over Steve’s. “Never.”

“There’s something wrong with me, Tony. My head, it’s...fuzzy. I forget stuff. I feel far away. Sometimes I see stuff. And I know it’s not there, I _know_ it’s not, but it’s like my mind and my body aren’t talking to each other anymore.”

Tony brought Steve’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. “I know, baby. I know there’s something wrong. Bruce and I talked about it, and he’s bringing help, okay? We’re going to get you sorted out.”

“What if I can’t be sorted? What if it just gets worse?”

“Then we’ll deal with that,” Tony said simply. “We’ll take things as they come, okay? You and me.”

Steve nodded. “Okay.”

“What’s this?” Tony asked, raising his eyebrows. “No arguments? Just ‘okay’?”

Steve shrugged. “Like I said, you’re wearing me down.”

“‘Bout damn time.”

Steve smiled. “What are we doing tonight?”

“We were going to watch the fireworks,” Tony said, but one look at Steve’s face told him everything. _God, we must be wearing_ each other _down. Either that, or we’re soul mates._ “Yeah,” he continued. “I don’t want to either.”

“Guess we could watch a movie?”

“Or how ‘bout this,” Tony said, turning his chair and leaning closer until Steve was in easy kissing-distance. “I go into town.” Threading his hand through Steve’s hair, pulling him in to kiss his cheekbone. “Get us some Chinese.” His jaw. Twice. He loved that jawline. “We open a bottle of wine.” His neck, his throat, his _spot_ , finally, nibbling it, tonguing it, with Steve’s hand on the back of his head, and Steve’s breath in his ear. “And then we see how many times I can make you come before one of us passes out.”

Steve gasped, then exhaled a laugh. He was blushing again, his cheeks a pale pink. “My god, Tony, the mouth on you.”

“Mm,” Tony hummed, nodding. “You’re right. It’s so much better when my mouth is on you.”

Steve laughed his slow, sleepy bedroom laugh. “Not what I meant, Stark. But...yeah.”

Tony kissed his mouth, thrilling at the feeling of so much Steve Rogers around him, with him, right in front of him, touching him with his large, steady hands, licking into his mouth with his soft, imaginative tongue.

_More than I deserve,_ he thought. _Even with his problems, he’s so much more than I deserve._ And, maybe they were soul mates, after all, because Steve was thinking the exact same thing.

  
The sky started to spit down rain as Tony drove into town. It got worse while he waited for the food. He sat at one of the small tables by the window, looking out as the occasional drops turned into a steady drizzle. It was fine. He was a good driver, a little rain never bothered him, but he felt bad for all those folks at the lake who had geared up for a fireworks show.

_Not happening now,_ he thought. _There’s my two hundred bucks down the drain._ There was no meanness in it, just a tinge of sadness. Those Girl Scouts had been nice.

The counterman called his number--funny, considering it was just him and one guy who looked to be asleep in the back booth. Tony paid, dropped in a cash tip, and left.

“How we looking, FRI?” he asked, digging an egg roll out of the bag. “No accidents or anything?”

“Smooth sailing so far, boss. But keep your speed in mind. There’s a policeman twelve miles out.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

He set the cruise at 52 miles per hour, three under the speed limit, and relaxed into the seat, munching his egg roll. He’d light a fire when he got home. Wine, fire, rain outside the window, Steve on the couch, ready and willing. It sounded too good to be true, but it wasn’t. This was his life now, and barring an occasional lapse on Steve’s part, it was perfect. It was everything he had never dared to hope for. He’d had something like it with Pepper, but this, this with Steve so far outshined that, it hurt Tony’s head just thinking about it.

It hurt his heart, too. Pepper had been such a good part of his past. He’d loved her more than he had ever loved anyone before. He still did. But this thing with Steve...it was fate. Tony didn’t believe in fate, but that’s what it was, all the same. There was no other way to explain it.

The way he’d loved Pepper had been uncomplicated, but the way he felt about Steve was anything but. Love, yes, god yes, so much love, but other things too: lust, kinship, protectiveness. Even things he didn’t want to admit to, like that tiny spark of anger deep down, that faint blush of fear. Those things should lessen the love he felt, but they didn’t--they enhanced it.

He thought about what Rhodey had said when he'd come down. Was this the way battered wives felt about their husbands? Surely, they had to feel something. It couldn’t all be fear of reprisal, could it? Didn’t there have to be a love there somewhere?

He shook his head as he passed the cop car on the side of the road. Long thoughts. Long, stupid thoughts. He snapped the radio on, found The Beatles doing “Can’t Buy Me Love”, and sang along.

Eight miles from home, thunder crashed over his head.

The radio let out a burst of static and cut out.

“FRI?” he said. “You still with me?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Good. I lost the radio signal.”

There was a pause, then her voice, her calm, comforting voice. “It appears lightning struck their transmitter tower.”

Tony whistled low. “Shit. Everybody okay? Did it catch fire?”

“Nothing reported.”

“‘Kay. Keep me posted.”

“Of course.”

Tony passed a speed limit sign, and it was as if a switch had been flipped. The rain turned to a downpour. It sheeted down around him, turning the car into a hollow steel drum. The Bentley sluiced left, over the broken line, and into the other lane. Tony tapped the brakes, letting the car lose some of its speed, and guided it back into place. Thunder crashed again like huge cymbals, and lightning speared down from the heavens. Tony let his speed drop more in the torrent, gritting his teeth.

“How are we, FRI?” he asked.

No answer.

“FRI?”

Nothing.

“FRIDAY, sweetie, are you with me?”

“Boss?” Finally, but she sounded strange. Almost frightened.

“What is it? Talk to me?”

“Activating Protocol 713-B.”

Terror slipped into Tony’s heart. Thunder crashed again; lightning followed somewhere close, somewhere just off the road, but Tony didn’t see or hear it.

“What’s going on? Where is he? What’s happening?”

“The lights went out, boss.”

“What the fuck is happening?” 

“His heart rate spiked. His blood pressure shot up. And he’s not in his wheelchair.”

“He fell? Is he okay?”

“He didn’t fall. He slid out onto the ground.”

“Talk to him. Tell him I’m coming.”

Despite the rain, despite the slick roads, Tony punched the gas pedal to the floor. The sedate old Bentley groaned, but she sped up, trying to oblige his frantic request.

“Come on,” he muttered, as the car slipped on the wet road. “Come on, come on.” Then, like a blessing, there was the turn-off to the cabin. Two miles. Tony took the turn at high speed, barely letting off the gas. He fancied he felt the car rise up on two wheels as he cornered. That might have been his imagination. It might not have.

“Update me, FRI,” he said, but there was no answer. Just the rain.

He sped down the dirt driveway, that was now the mud driveway, tearing huge ruts in it with the heavy car. Good, old-fashioned metal. None of this fiberglass shit for him. He was an Iron Man, through and through.

Lightning lit up the night sky like a flash from a god’s camera. _Loki’d better not be fucking around up there,_ he thought distractedly, but was also glad for the momentary illumination. There were no lights on in the house. It was a dark hull. The irony was, they had a generator all gassed up and ready to go. But it was outside in the garage. Even if he’d still been in the chair, Tony didn’t think Steve could have made it out there. The dooryard was a quagmire of mud and swamp. He’d be lucky to get two feet in that slop, let alone the twenty to the garage.

Tony spun the car around until it faced the front door. The headlights threw their twin beams on the front of the cabin. The tailights tossed tawdry red into the trees, turning rain drops into trumpery jewels. He left it running, the engine rumbling as he opened the door and jumped out.

Tony ran to the door, expensive Italian loafers slipping and sliding in the muck. They hadn’t been designed for this kind of thing. He’d thrown them on because they were easy, and they looked good. If he’d known he’d be playing “Survivorman” out here in the elements, he would have worn his Timberlands.

He tried the door, sure he had left it unlocked, and the knob turned smoothly in his hand, just like it always had. “Steve,” he called. “Where are you, baby?”

There was no answer.

Tony looked around warily in the headlights’ glow. Everything seemed to have taken a subtle, stealthy step, throwing the entire house off-kilter. “Steve?” he said, and took a step into the living room. The headlights only penetrated so far. After a few steps, the entire cabin was lost in an abyss of shadows.

“FRIDAY? Where is he?”

His voice was quiet, his eyes moved restlessly, picking out mundane things and turning them into something fantastical. She was silent, and he was just getting ready to ask again, when she spoke, her voice as hushed as his own. “Captain Rogers is in the bedroom. Be careful, boss. He isn’t himself.”

“What do you mean?” Tony whispered. His steps were soft, silent as cat paws as he crossed the living room.

“He’s talking to people who aren’t there. Sergeant Barnes. A Jonesy. Morita. Jacques.”

Tony knew the names. Howard trotted them out from time to time when he was in his cups. Not as often as Steve’s, but often enough Tony knew exactly who they were. The Howling Commandos. Steve’s old squad.

Slipping into the kitchen, Tony carefully slid open the junk drawer. Like every other kitchen in America--the world, probably--this one held all manner of detritus that had no other place in the home. Paper clips, twist ties, coasters, half-used rolls of duct-tape, loose batteries, loose change, an old roll of Certs that had probably belonged to Howard--did they even _make_ Certs anymore? There were also two old flashlights in there, and that’s what Tony wanted.

He wrapped his hand over the glass cover of the first and turned it on. Nothing. “Fuck,” he muttered, and grabbed the other, praying it would work. He didn’t want to resort to candles. He repeated the process, covering the end with his hand, and this time when he thumbed the switch, his fingers glowed a fiendish red. Tony sighed in relief and edged toward the bedroom.

“How’s his stats, FRI?”

“They’re all elevated. He’s under extreme stress.”

“‘Kay.”

“Should I contact anyone?”

“Not yet. Give me a minute. Let me try and fix this.”

“Alright, boss.”

“But be on alert. I trust your judgement, sweetheart.”

“Of course.”

Tony took a deep breath, pressed against the wall outside the bedroom. He’d lain in there with Steve just this afternoon. Holding him, kissing him, talking, laughing, professing his love--again. _This will be oka_ y, he thought. _Nothing bad can happen in there. That’s sacred space._

He cleared his throat. “Steve?” he called. “Baby, it’s me. Tony. Can I come in?”

There was a soft thud, a whisper, then silence.

Tony let it spin out, then spoke again. “Are you okay in there? Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

_“Ich nehme dir nichts ab, Schwein.”_

Tony shook his head, wishing to Christ he’d paid more attention to his German at school. As it was, he was pretty sure Steve had just called him a pig.

“Can I come in?” he asked again. “FRIDAY said you’re pretty upset. I think you’ve got her worried.” He laughed shakily. “You’re worrying me too, baby, I’m not gonna lie.”

_“Halten Sie Ihre hübschen Worte für sich."_

Tony clenched his fist, rolling his eyes in helpless frustration. “Throw me a bone, Steve, please. If you’re going to smack-talk me, at least do it in English.”

“I said keep your pretty words to yourself.”

“Okay. Can you tell me what happened? I’m sorry if I upset you, but I can’t fix it if I don’t know what it is.”

Steve’s laughter was cold, cruel. “Fix it? _Fix it?_ I knew you were crazy, but I had no idea you were stupid. No wonder Erskine gave up on you.”

“Huh? Erskine? What--” Then his legs were swept out from under him.

Tony fell to the floor in a heap. The flashlight slipped out of his hands and skittered across the room, throwing a kaleidoscope of light every which way.

Steve was on him in a second. Outside, the rain had begun to taper off, but in here, the storm was still raging. Steve climbed on top of him, his hair falling over his brow, his eyes dark. His breath came in short pulls, almost panting, chest rising and falling fast. _This is how he’d look,_ Tony thought crazily, and then Steve’s hands were around his throat.

“I knew you’d come back, Schmidt,” he said. “I always knew. _Ich hätte dich das erste Mal töten sollen.”_

Black flowers bloomed in Tony’s vision as Steve squeezed. He was lying mostly on top of Tony, his right knee supporting his weight, leaning on his hands, choking the breath out of his lungs, choking the _life_ out of him. Tony was fading. He could feel it, the strength leaving his body. Weakly, his hand scrabbled on the wooden floor and closed over something heavy. He brought it around, using every ounce of muscle he had left, and brought the flashlight down against Steve’s temple.

He fell back, blood spurting, and Tony scooted out from under him, shoving with his heels, clawing with his fingers. Breath whooped into his mouth, burning his throat and lungs in the most divine way imaginable.

Steve came for him again, but Tony was ready this time. As Steve moved toward him, Tony struck out with his foot, pistoning from the hip, and drove it into Steve’s bad left leg. A flare of sorrow shot through him-- _I’m so sorry, baby_ \--as it connected, and Steve fell forward with a cry of pain.

Tony drug himself further back until he hit the wall. He shoved himself against it, gasping air in, coughing it out again. “Steve,” he said, his voice a grating whisper. “Steve, it’s me. Tony. Tony Stark, baby, look at me.”

Steve lay on the floor, his back heaving up and down as he breathed. His hands moved at his sides, coming up, his left palm flat on the ground, his right curled, but still useful, still helping him rise.

“Steve,” Tony pleaded. “Hey, come on, open your eyes and look at me, ‘kay? I am not Johann Schmidt. He’s gone. Far away, remember? Nebula told us he was on some other _planet_. Remember? Boromir.” He sighed harshly. “No, not Boromir, but something like that.”

Steve rose to his knee. His head was bowed, his hair hanging in a sweaty tangle over his eyes. His left leg stuck out stiffly behind him. His right hand was still curled. He was holding something, but Tony couldn’t see what it was. It was too dark, Tony’s vision, too blurry.

“Steve, listen to me, ‘kay? Listen to my voice. You know me. You know who I am. Alright? It’s me. It’s _Tony_. You know me, you _love_ me, baby--”

“Don’t call me that!” Steve shouted, and leapt forward. As he came, he swung his arm in a short, hard arc, and it was only when the headlights caught on the blade, that Tony realized the thing he’d been holding was his razor.

Tony threw himself to the side, the razor, meant to deliver a killing slash, grazed his cheek instead. He felt his skin part, felt the blood as it began to flow.

Steve hit the wall where Tony had been, and Tony lashed out with his feet again, planting both in Steve’s side. He felt a rib break under his heel, and Steve collapsed onto his left side, the razor still held tight in his fist.

“Drop your weapon!”

Tony’s eyes shot to the door. The lake community didn’t have a police officer, but the County Sheriff’s Department took turns tooling through every few hours, busting up teenage drinking parties and catching out-of-town speeders. This was probably the same one Tony had passed on his way home. Back when all he had to worry about was getting home before the food got too cold. 

Getting home to Steve.

Steve’s hand clenched tighter around the razor.

“Officer,” Tony said.

“Shut up.” Then, to Steve, “I said drop your weapon, sir, and nobody else has to get hurt, okay?”

He was young, but sturdily built, and the hand holding his own weapon was firm, solid as a rock. “Drop your weapon.”

“Steve, listen to--”

“I said, shut _up_.”

Thinking back, Tony didn’t see how the three things could possibly have happened simultaneously, but in that moment, it certainly seemed that way:

Steve swung around, the razor deadly in his grip.

The sheriff’s deputy, his young face passive, fired his weapon.

The lights in the cabin popped on, banishing the shadows and throwing the whole, bloody scene into sharp relief.

Steve flinched, squeezing his eyes shut, as the lights came on. The bullet struck home in his upper arm. His grip loosened on the razor, but he didn’t drop it. Tony rolled instinctively in front of Steve, then jumped to his feet, shielding him from another bullet.

“Get out of the way, Mr. Stark.”

“No, officer, wait, you don’t understand the situation,” he said, and his mind supplied with giddy hilarity, _Join the fucking club, kid!_

Steve sat up, opened his eyes, and looked around, dazed. “Tony?” he said, and Tony sagged in relief.

“Steve.”

He shifted on the ground, winced at the pain in his arm, his side. He looked at the razor in his hand, confused, and sat it down. “Oh my god, what happened? I think I’ve been shot. Tony, I--”

He stopped as his eyes cleared, as they lit on Tony.

Tony knew what he probably looked like. Mud, dirt on his clothing, hair a mess, blood covering his face from the mean, but shallow cut across his cheekbone. Bruises in the shape of Steve’s large, well-loved hands, hands that had held him, stroked him, loved him so many times, beginning to show up on his throat.

“What happened?” Steve whispered, frightened. “Tony? Are you okay? What--You’re hurt.”

“It’s okay,” Tony said, still standing, the officer behind him looking at them both now, unsure, his youth winning out over his training for the moment. “Baby, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“What happened, Tony? Who did--” He stopped, his eyes going to the razor on the ground by his knee.

“Steve.”

He shook his head as understanding turned his blue eyes gray. “Oh no,” he whispered. “No. No, no, no.” He looked up, helpless and cold. “I did this.”

“Baby,” Tony began, indecision tearing him to pieces, unsure if he should go to him or stay here to protect him from another bullet. “Steve, baby, listen, it’s okay, right? It wasn’t you, you _know_ it wasn’t you. It’s not your fault.”

“I hurt you.”

“I’m fine, baby, it’s okay.”

“I _hurt_ you.”

“No, Steve--NO!”

Steve laid hold of the razor and put the tip under his ear. He drew it across his throat, ending its short, deadly journey at the exact spot Tony had claimed as his own.

Blood sheeted down his neck, his chest, pattering to the floor in great, huge drops. Tony fell to his knees, grabbing the tablecloth with one hand and yanking it down. Plates, silverware, the vase with FRIDAY’s daisies in it, all clattered to the ground. Two glasses shattered unimportantly as Tony pressed the tablecloth to Steve’s throat.

“Call an ambulance!” he yelled, but the kid was already on his radio, yelling in their location, telling them there was a man down, shots had been fired, self-inflicted wound, so get here _now_ , motherfuckers, right NOW.

But before he even finished speaking, there was a siren, lights in the yard outside.

“FRI?” Tony asked, clutching the tablecloth to Steve’s bleeding throat.

“I contacted medical personnel. They’re here.”

“Thank you, sweetie.”

“Yes, boss.”

And if there was ever a time Tony thanked god she liked Steve better than him, it was right that second.

  
\---

  
**He looked so small.**

**Why did hospital beds always make everyone look so small? Maybe it was a mental thing. That big expanse of white sheet, white pillow, the person’s affliction already fixed in your mind, already robbing them of their vitality.**

**But Steve was so big.**

**How could he look so small?**

**“May I have a minute alone with him?” Tony asked.**

**“It’s hospital policy that the guard remain in the room at all times.”**

**Tony rolled his eyes. “Really, Strange? He’s sedated, he’s in restraints, and I’m Iron Man. What’s going to happen?”**

**“He stays.”**

**The tiny amount of fight Tony had been able to muster drained away. “Okay,” he said.**

**Strange sighed. “But I’ll have him come into the doorway.”**

**“You’re a prince, Stephen.”**

**Strange gestured to the door and he and the guard stepped away from the bed, giving Tony at least the illusion of privacy.**

**Steve lay with his head on the pillow. The bandages on his neck were heavy, blamelessly white. His arms were at his sides, strapped to the bed with padded canvas cuffs, cinched tight. His face was slack with whatever drugs they had pumped him full of, pale, etched with smile lines at the corners of his eyes. Looking at those hurt Tony’s heart.**

**He reached out and smoothed Steve’s hair back from his forehead, brushing it back with his fingers the way Steve liked it. “Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, you.”**

**He waited, knowing there’d be no response, but hoping for it anyway.**

**“Wake up,” he said, swallowing hard. “Come on, baby, wake up for me. I need to talk to you.”**

**He waited again, but Steve slept on, oblivious.**

**“Okay,” he said. “Okay, stay asleep, but listen, ‘kay? If you can hear me at all, then please just listen.”**

**Tony put his hand against Steve’s cheek, and leaned down until his lips were near Steve’s ear. “I am _not_ giving up on you, okay?” he whispered. “They have to take you away for a little while, but it won’t be for long. Just a little while, okay, and then we’ll be back together again, and you’ll be better, and we can start getting back to normal. Right, baby?”**

**“Tony.”**

**“Just give me another minute, ‘kay?”**

**“One more minute.”**

**Tony pressed his lips to Steve’s unresponsive ones, held them there, willing Steve to move, then put them against Steve’s ear again. “Come back to me,” he whispered. “I need you. I don’t know how to be without you anymore, and I don’t want to remember. Please. Please, baby, just get better fast so you can come home. Okay? Please, okay?”**

**He pressed his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, kissing the bandage above his spot, curling his fingers into Steve’s shirt. He breathed shallowly, keeping the tears at bay by sheer force of will. He could sense the guard coming back into the room, but stayed where he was, clutching the fabric of Steve’s shirt, feeling his warmth, listening to his heart beat. “I love you,” he whispered, not caring one iota if the guard heard what he was saying. “And I need you to come home.”**

**“Tony. Come on, it’s time. The ambulance is ready to take him now.”**

**Tony tightened his grip on Steve. “No,” he said. “Strange, please don’t take him. This isn’t fair. It’s not his fault.”**

**Strange grasped Tony’s shoulder and pulled. Tony came reluctantly.**

**The paramedics were there then, and they heaved Steve’s large, unconscious form onto their wheeled gurney.**

**“Wait,” Tony said, and pulled out of Strange’s hands. He kissed Steve’s lips one more time, long and hard, the four other men in the room, glancing down at their shoes. Tony didn’t give a shit.**

**“I love you, Steve,” he whispered into his ear. “Please, please, please remember that. I love you.”**

**This time it was the guard who pulled him gently away, and Tony didn’t resist. He just watched as they wheeled his best guy down the hallway away from him.**

**Strange put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go settle him in,” he said. “I’ll keep him sedated tonight and when he's lucid, he and I will have a talk. I’ll make sure I’m there when he wakes up, alright, Tony? That way he’ll see a face he recognizes first.”**

**Tony nodded. “Thank you.”**

**Strange started away, but Tony called him back. “Umm, he--” Tony paused, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to get himself under control. “He doesn’t like his sandwiches cut diagonally,” he said, at last. “It has to be in rectangles, top to bottom.”**

**Strange nodded.**

**“And don’t let him watch The Bachelorette. He says he can handle it, but he’s pissed for three days after every single episode. I’ve been telling him the new season hasn’t started yet. Just keep telling him that.”**

**Strange’s eyebrows contracted. “Oookay...”**

**“And,” Tony wiped his eyes, sniffing back tears, “and he’s going to throw his blankets off in the night. Somebody has to be there to put them back on, okay?” Strange said nothing, and Tony stepped closer, pointing his finger into Strange’s chest, his eyes flashing with anger. “It’s important, Strange. He gets cold, and he thinks he’s back in the ice. If somebody doesn’t put the blanket back, it triggers a nightmare.”**

**Strange nodded. “Alright, Tony. I’ll tell the staff. I’ll take care of it.”**

**“Promise me.”**

**“I promise.”**

**Strange turned to leave again.**

**“Stephen?”**

**“What is it, Tony?” Impatient now.**

**Tony couldn’t quite meet his eye. “He’s going to be okay, right? He’s going to get better?”**

**Strange regarded him mildly, then sighed. “I wish I could just say yes.”**

**Tony nodded, already dreading the ride home, the quiet house, the long hours and days ahead.**

**“Me too.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this came fast, but my life kind of took a turn into shambles last night. I am going to be fast-tracking the rest of these stories so I can get them out to those of you who have stuck with me through this. Fair warning: the rest is a little rough around the edges. I won't have time to polish it as much as I would like. Sorry. You're probably tired of hearing this, but THANK YOU to everyone reading this. Sharing these stories, and your kind words and excitement about them has given me more in the last couple months than I deserve. Thanks again. I love you all!  
> P.S. The translations from German are going to be given in the next story. But, of course, you are welcome to Google them before if you'd like:)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Regina Spektor song


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